


Armour

by IamShadow21



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Clothing Kink, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e01 Everything Changes, Episode: s01e04 Cyberwoman, Episode: s01e05 Small Worlds, Episode: s01e08 They Keep Killing Suzie, Episode: s02e12 Fragments, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Secrets, Stopwatch, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto's suit is more than just a suit. It's a protective barrier between him and the outside world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armour

_Like the suit, by the way._

When both his initial attempts fail, Ianto defaults to what he knows. He hasn’t worn a suit since the day the world turned to blood and metal and fire, but his hands move automatically, knotting the length of silk without trembling.

After smoothing the jacket one final time, he double-checks the machines and gives Lisa’s cool, still lips a gentle kiss.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises, his voice a whisper.

The hiss of the respirator is the only reply.

Three hours later, he stumbles back into the storage unit. He checks Lisa’s vital signs – unchanged – then collapses onto the mattress in the corner without undressing. The beep of her heart monitor reproaches him, the steady drip of saline and sedatives into her veins accuses.

It won’t be for long, he tells himself. He’ll use Torchwood for only as long as he needs to, and then they’ll be gone. A month, maybe two. There’ll be something in the archives that he’ll be able to use, some piece of equipment that can help her. 

He formulates plans until dawn, in lieu of the sleep that he knows is unattainable. Anything is preferable to focussing on the gaping, unanticipated crack in his armour of wool, silk and starched cotton.

***

_Ianto cleans up after us and gets everywhere on time. And he looks good in a suit._

The days tick over into weeks. He quietly goes about making himself indispensable, taking on all the unpleasant and boring tasks that no one wants to do but that must get done to ensure an organisation runs efficiently. 

One nerve-wracking night while the team are dredging the bay for an artefact, he moves Lisa into the Hub. He jumps at every clatter, drip, click and beep until she’s tucked away, deep underground. Then he waits another two hours, trying to wind down, wiping clammy palms against wool-clad thighs. 

When they finally arrive and he greets them with coffee, they barely pause in their banter with each other to grab their mugs. Even Jack’s eyes have started to slide right past him as though he’s not there, when he isn’t eyeing him like an attractive proposition, that is.

It’s that electric blue gaze that undoes him in the end. 

Lisa’s becoming resistant to the painkillers, he’s been on his feet for nineteen hours and twenty four minutes with no reprieve, and the others all left over an hour ago. Jack steps into his personal space and makes a provocative comment. The words themselves wash over him, but the intent is clear. Jack’s fingers toy with his tie; it’s the red one, today. He’d usually smirk, raise an eyebrow, make some dry retort, but he’s tired, he’s just _so fucking tired_ , so he steps closer instead. It feels like only moments later that he’s pressed up against a convenient wall, biting deep furrows in his lower lip, listening to Jack panting harshly in his ear, their belts unbuckled and clinking around their knees.

It’s hasty and mind-blowing and he feels more alive than he has for months, but when it’s over, he knows he’ll never be clean again.

***

_You hid her. You hid yourself from us._

He’s still kneeling in her blood, raw and weeping, when Jack’s arms wind around him from behind. He considers struggling, but the chloroform does its work with rapid efficiency and the world fades away.

When he wakes, it’s to warmth and the rough scratch of upholstery fabric against his cheek. There’s a grey army blanket draped over him, his skin smells of soap rather than copper, and he’s dressed in what he recognises as one of Jack’s undershirts and a soft pair of drawstring trousers. The Hub is dark, but the glow of lamplight is filtering out from Jack’s office. If he concentrates, he can hear the scratch of the nib of Jack’s fountain pen.

He’s still too groggy and emotionally shattered to process the fact that Jack stripped him and washed him while he was unconscious, so he stumbles upstairs to the coffee machine, because routine is the only rock he has left to cling to. 

The hot liquid slops a little onto Jack’s desk as he sets the mug down because his hands won’t stop shaking, no matter how much he wills them to. The Webley that was so recently pressed against his temple is resting on top of a sheaf of printouts of Rift activity, for the moment being used as nothing more than a paperweight. Jack doesn’t even glance up.

“I’ve called a cab for you,” Jack says, signing a document with his characteristic flourish. “I want you in tomorrow at ten. No sooner.”

He hovers for a moment longer, waiting for Jack to say something more, but he doesn’t. 

The next day, Jack calls Ianto into his office and suspends him for four weeks. Ianto never asks what happened to his clothes.

***

_You shouldn’t be here._

He sleeps for the first three days. Cleans his flat from top to bottom compulsively for the next four. Cries in the shower more times than he bothers to count, because it’s the only place he dares. If he lets himself cry anywhere else, he knows he won’t stop. On day nine, he drives out to the supermarket, more because he can’t stand being cooped up any longer than through any desire to eat. When he gets home, Jack is waiting for him, leaning casually against the SUV.

He wonders if this is the day he gets Retconned, and he hesitates some distance away, wary.

“Hey,” Jack says. His smile is genuine, reassuring. “Mind if I come up for a minute?”

Jack stays for two hours, and comes by every second or third day until the end of his suspension. Sometimes he turns up with take-away, a movie, or a bottle of alcohol. Others, it’s evidently spur-of-the-moment, like the time he appears at midnight, bloody and high on adrenaline after wrestling a couple of Weevils back to the Hub. He stands shirtless in Ianto’s kitchen, chattering at sixty miles an hour, while Ianto dabs the deepest slices on his torso with antiseptic.

Through the whole month, Jack maintains a completely appropriate distance. When Ianto starts back at work, the customary proposition Ianto has grown to expect when he brings Jack his first cup of the day doesn’t eventuate. Just a polite thank you, and a grumble about drowning in paperwork.

“Don’t work too late tonight,” Jack adds as Ianto is on his way out of the room. “I think you should ease back into this, for everyone’s sake, not just your own. All right?”

Jack’s eyes are locked on his; electric blue. They don’t flick up and down the length of him, mentally removing his suit, and there’s no secret, sly laughter hiding in their depths, just calm professional concern. Ianto murmurs acquiescence. 

It doesn’t stop him losing track of time sorting out the mess the rest of the team have made of the archives while he was gone. He sneaks back upstairs at one am. Even Jack’s office is dark and quiet. There’s nothing but an insistent sort of blipping sound from one of the computers disturbing the hush. It’s ingrained habit to check the alert, and of course, that’s when Jack emerges, rumpled and tousled from sleep, and catches him.

“What’ve you got?”

Jack’s hand on his back is warm, firm and gentle, and completely unexpected. It’s not sexual in the slightest, but his heart steps up a notch. Ianto’s torn between flinching away and pressing back against it. He remains more or less in place, though he does take a deep, steadying breath while he absently tries to recall the last time another person touched him like that. He quickly gives it up as a lost cause. 

When the Pierce girl is taken, Jack sits in his office, alone, drinking. Ianto slips in like a shadow, rests his hand on Jack’s shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. Jack’s hand comes up to cover his, to hold his hand there for long minutes, and Ianto wonders how long it’s been since anyone touched Jack like this, just to comfort, no strings attached. How long since Jack _let_ someone.

Too long, for both of us, he decides.

***

_If you’re interested, I’ve still got that stopwatch._

They move around each other in a slow dance that he doesn’t really know the steps to. There’s still a distance there, but the boundaries shrink day by day. Jack comments on his suits again, Ianto lets his fingers brush deliberately against Jack’s as he hands him his coffee, his coat, printouts of information requests from UNIT. There’s lust in Jack’s electric blue gaze again, but it’s tempered with caution, with questions. Jack taking the softly, softly approach would normally be enough to send Ianto into peals of laughter at the incongruence, were he not so aware that that is exactly what he needs; at least, for a little while.

Their first kiss seems to catch them both off guard. It’s slightly awkward, tentative and unsure, and neither of them seems to know what to say afterwards. Jack coughs nervously and steps back to give Ianto the space he needs to collect himself. Ianto hides up in the Tourist Office for most of the day.

“Did you get that list I sent through an hour ago?” Jack asks casually when Ianto brings him his mid-afternoon, industrial strength brew. Jack’s eyes, however, are scanning him as though assessing for damage.

“I’ve just finished checking the storage room. We should have more than enough equipment. I believe one of those tents could easily host a small circus. Complete with elephant,” he replies smoothly. He gives Jack a tiny smile, a minuscule nod. _I’m okay._

The dance continues, step forward, step back, until Ianto looks at Jack slumped against the drawers in the morgue and realises that this time, _Jack’s_ the one who’s tired. That’s how Ianto finds himself stepping into Jack’s office, depressing the button on the top of the stopwatch with a sharp click like a gun being cocked.

Jack’s seated on the edge of his desk, just watching, waiting. When Ianto slides the jacket from his shoulders and hangs it neatly on the back of a chair, Jack’s lips part and his eyebrows arch in surprise. The tie is next. It’s red again, today, and Ianto nearly smirks at the coincidence. The knot loosens easily, the length of crimson silk whispering free. One, two, three buttons slip from their nooses under his fingertips, and Jack fidgets and lets out a soft, appreciative sound. 

When the shirt is parted from collar to waist, Ianto realises with a jolt that he feels completely naked, vulnerable and exposed. He bites his lip, expecting Jack to make a lewd comment laden with innuendo, but Jack’s eyes are dark, slightly disbelieving, _knowing_ , as though he understands _exactly_ what the significance of this slow unveiling is.

Ianto moves closer until his thighs bump against Jack’s knees, and slips the stopwatch into Jack’s hand.


End file.
